The Shipwreck: An Old Sailing Schooner Wreck Helps Me Connect with History

 The Oregon coast is perhaps one of the most iconic if not scenic of coastal areas. Mostly unspoiled, long stretches of pristine beaches run almost the full length of the western edge of the state. During the few years I spent out there as a member of the U.S. Coast Guard Station Umpqua River, Winchester Bay (mid-1970's), I often strayed away from the routine of station life to walk amongst the miles of driftwood timbers cluttering the high tide mark. Those outings were attempts to satisfy another one of my many Walter Mitty dreams that never came to pass; being an adventurous archeologist, and this was way before the days of Indiana Jones.

Pacific storms often batter the Oregon coast and because of their ferocity they will reshape and gouge the beach to expose relecks from times past. Those storms over the decades tossed many ships and sailors toward a dooming encounter, to run aground, on the deceptively beautiful beaches. Close to 3000 shipwrecks dating back to 1600's are scattered along this coast. (One of the oldest was a Spanish Galleon in the late 1600's that was lost enroute to Mexico from the Philippines. No one for many years knew for sure where it was lost, but recent discoveries places it along the Oregon coast. The first documented shipwreck occurred in 1808 when the Sea Otter, a 100 ton fur trading vessel was caught in a storm and wrecked near Reedsport/Winchester Bay.) During my tenure there, as luck would have it, after one such storm, the wreck of an old wooden sailing schooner was resurrected out of its sandy grave and exposed once again to the elements. I was determined to explore it.

Internet Photo for Illustration
(courtesy Photos of the Past) 
Alpha Sailing Schooner

Too many years have passed for me to remember the name of that schooner wreck. (It might have been  the Alpha - a wooden sailing schooner run aground near the Umpqua River Bar/Winchester Bay/Reedsport area on February 3, 1907, but to be honest, I'm not sure if it was north or south of the Umpqua River Bar. Overtures to some of the historical societies in the area have proven unsuccessful in identifying the one I visited.) Regardless, I began my journey hiking down the beach one blustery day to check it out.

Back then, just south of the Umpqua River Bar, there were three parking areas, each a mile or so apart. The remains of the wreck was located a few miles further south of the last parking area and required either a hike in or a 4x4 to get there. I did not have a 4x4 then, so I set off on foot.

A dark, low hanging overcast covered the landscape, so low and foreboding it all but seemed to blend with an ocean turned heavy by a stiff Northwesterly wind. Mist from the overcast mingled with the air and joined the wind whipped moisture coming off the breakers that were rolling in just off shore. One after another the breakers tumbled in generating a constant roar as they collided with the end of the continent. 

Behind and above the beach along the Douglas Fir lined ridge, the low overcast embraced the irregular tops of the trees turning them into ghostly gray apparitions. A beautiful sight in its own right, but not exactly the best kind of day for a hike, but the kind of day where the feel and fragrance and exhilaration of the moment burns itself into a forever visual memory.

It is always chilly on the beaches of Oregon, even in summer, but I purposely underdressed because the long hike ahead of me required some effort. All I wore that day was a long sleeve cotton blue work shirt, my C.G. issued heavy field jacket, dungarees, a ball cap, and a pair of boots. The only tools I carried included my venerable Buck 110 folding knife. That knife was rather new at the time, maybe a year old and it was sharp. It had to be, and we were constantly sharpening them for we used our knives for all kinds of things from scraping paint, to whittling, to cutting heavy line, all activities that tended to dull a blade. I figured I might find some old brass or iron spikes embedded in the timbers I could dig out.

At the time,  I wasn't sure how far it was to the wreck. I wasn't even sure for what it was I was looking. I figured I'd just walk until I found it. Felt like it was a lot further than what folks said it was as my hike dragged on for what seemed like miles, and walking that far on sand is not easy. About half way down, I crossed where a small creek emptied into the ocean as it spread out into a meandering delta-like stream several tens of yards across, and in places it was several inches deep. I tried to cross, jumping here and there, tip-toeing without getting my feet wet to no avail...they got wet. Being in a constant state of chilled wetness was just part of life as a member of a C.G. Lifeboat station...and I was used to it by then.

Just above the high tide, storm surge mark, the force of the storm had carved the sand into a seven or eight foot high crumbling sand wall topped by clumps of beach grass and loose debris that ran for miles. I had timed my hike to coincide with a receding tide. Spread across the sand in front of that wall were piles upon piles of large timbers of driftwood bleached almost white from exposure. I almost turned back after a good ways because I could not find anything that looked like the wooden spars of an old sailing schooner. However, a bit further out across the beach a line of tire tracks extended the length of the beach. I figured they were from a 4x4 heading out to the wreck site...and that assumption proved correct for a short distance later I spied what appeared to be a 4x4 Blazer parked near the sandy wall.

Internet Photo (Emily Reed wreck) Similar
to the Schooner wreck debris

A short while later I lumbered onto the wreck site. It was a remarkable, but sad site. Large ship timbers extended out from the sandy wall with ribs radiating in disarray laying on the sand to either side. There was no form or shape to them, just timbers that vaguely resembled the shape of a sailing vessel.  Unfortunately, there had been so much damage done to the wreck site by souvenir hunters wielding chainsaws, it was voided as a potential archeological site. There was not much left of it, just scattered timbers here and there with a few still attached to the main spar extending out from the sand wall. A lot of the debris had been stacked into a pile of rubble. The people who drove the Blazer were friendly enough, but seemed a bit uneasy about me being there. They replaced/hid their chainsaws inside the Blazer and simply kicked the sand around looking for artifacts. More than likely they saw the stenciled C.G. Station Umpqua River across the back of my field jacket and thought I might be investigating the situation or something. Actually I was, but not in the context of what they might have thought.

Regardless, they left a few moments after I arrived and I had the place to myself. I searched the loose timbers and found one S-shaped and partially broken brass spike that had been used to hold two pieces together. After that, I found a rusted out iron spike and some broken glass. The sight had been pretty well worked over so not much was left. Eventually, I moved closer to the sand wall from where the timbers extended out, and saw what looked like the bottom of an old bottle sticking out of it.

 I brushed away the loose sand. To my dismay, an old wide mouth medicine bottle with a cork stopper still in place, rolled to the bottom of the wall. It looked like some kind of substance had dried and stuck to the inside surface. The cork was still intact, but quite fragile. I stuck the bottle inside my coat pocket. A short time later using my hands to scrape the sandy wall another bottle appeared. This time it was an old Listerine bottle, again with a cork stopper still attached. I could tell it was old because of the kind of top it had, the embossed lettering, the coloration, and the fact that air bubbles were scattered throughout the glass. There was still some kind of liquid inside, just a small amount..water I thought, and I carefully removed the cork and took a sniff. To my astonishment, it smelled like...Listerine. Go figure. My guess, both bottles were from the sickbay/medical supplies on board the schooner. (In spite of my best efforts, although I still have that first medicine bottle, I was unable to find it for a photo to be included.)

I found no other artifacts of consequence during my stay, just some loose odds and ends, broken glass, and some small pieces of wood. The evening was fast approaching and I had a long walk back, so I said farewell to this symbol of a lost era. I wish now I would have returned and spent more time there searching that sandy wall for more amazing things to discover. I still have those few pieces of history I did find, and will from time to time hold them in my hand as I recall the events of that day. The old Listerine bottle helps to date the wreck from somewhere around 1905 - 1910 which corresponds with the date (Feb 3, 1907) the Alpha ran aground.  The corks that were still in the bottles, after being exposed to the drying properties of the air, rapidly deteriorated and crumbled away. 

I suppose I have always had a fascination with history in general, and historical artifacts and the events surrounding them...I have a few other old pieces I've found over the years; old farm tools, harness fittings, things like that. I also cannot help wondering about the people involved with such places. It must have been a frightful experience to be onboard that schooner and tossed around by a storm to run aground. Not sure how many people lived or died during that dreadful encounter way back then. I can only speculate on what might have happened. All I know is those two bottles, brass and iron spikes, are part of a continuous timeline that began while the schooner was being built, to eventually end on that lonely stretch of beach. 

A single day hiking for miles along the ancient beach inserted me into the historical timeline of a sailing schooner shipwreck, a timeline that continues even today when I hold those few articles in hand. Each time I am returned to that blustery day to revisit the sights and sounds of an amazing adventure. Having done so, well...it has to be one of my best Walter Mitty adventures and discoveries of all time.

Digesting The Moment

 March is the longest of months. Seems that way because it can never decide what it wants to do. At times it throws teaser days around with abandon ushering in warm spring-like temperatures only to turn blustery and cold again with a vengeance. Gentle winds transform into a roaring tempest, then filter back into a near calm spirit. A brilliant sun can fill the landscape and encourage it with the clearest of blue skies and then clouds blow in so thick as to turn daytime into a discouraging dusk at mid-day. Blooming trees, lured into an early display of flowers, are often zapped back into a muted wrinkled state. March is indeed the longest of months, and by months end, my spirit is often in need of some lifting.

March is for me the most difficult month to stay motivated. Those teaser days lure your aspirations with anticipation, then dash them, as finicky weather tosses them back into dormancy. Even so, there are moments I force myself to pick up my camera gear and get out. The scenery is often bland this time of year, but the trick is to find a way to digest the moment. 

The other day I took an easy stroll through the woods outback and stopped at a nearby pond. There was a bit of a breeze and a chill in the air, but the woods surrounding the pond served to muffle the effects of the wind. I found a somewhat dry spot and plopped down to lean against a tree trunk. Over the next thirty minutes or so, I really did not do much, just sat quietly and watched the ripples push a few dried leaves across the pond and listened to the breeze as it reached across the tops of the still dormant trees. Only a few early season, green clusters of leafy foliage broke the mundane gray and brown prevailing color. A few birds joined me; a cardinal, a titmouse, a chickadee or two or three, and some crows added their annoying squawking to the sounds of the afternoon.

I really did not take very many photos, just a snapshot or two. Mostly, I just enjoyed the quiet...digesting the moment. After sitting for a while, I continued my stroll crossing the open area between the two patches of woods and walked along the outside edge of the far one. All the fields were filled with debris and stubble, soybeans and corn. Toward the far corner of the woods before it opened up again into another field, I crossed through the outer edge and stepped onto the wooden bridge that spanned a low swampy area. As I stood on the front edge of that bridge, some movement caught my attention to my left. At first I could not make out what it was, then it moved again about 30 feet away; a migrating woodcock. He had stopped in this thicket, as they so often do, searching for a juicy worm to eat by probing their long beak into the soft mud. I raised my camera to attempt a photo but he spooked before I could capture him. A short time later, I jumped him again a bit further down along the outer edge of the woods. I never saw him the second time until he jumped. It's amazing how well camouflaged they are.

Before long, I had made my way to the far end of the woods and angled across the back edge of the cornstubble field to the other pond. As I carelessly approached, a couple of deer trotted off through the woods. Should have known they might be there. I stopped for a few moments next to that small pond and listened to the wind again as it moved the tops of the trees and jostled a grove of cedars into activity.

I made my way back toward home, sidestepping and zig-zagging around muddy pools of standing rainwater. When I crossed over the backside of my yard I stopped for just a moment to sit in the old porch swing we have set up out there. The firepit was cluttered with debris and filled with leaves...time to clean it up and get it ready for a new season...but not today. Today I'm just digesting the moment and allowing nature to say a few things. I suppose the best way to do some digesting is simply to allow nature to hold you captive for a while. As far as that goes, nature can hold me captive anytime of year...even during the longest of months...

The Meadowlark and the Prairie Pond

The tallgrass prairie, once covering over 400,000 square miles, as a continuous ecosystem was virtually destroyed in a few short years. By 1900, over 95% of it was lost to agricultural development and urban sprawl. However, a few remnants still exist. One of my favorite locations to visit and photograph is Oklahoma's Tallgrass Prairie Preserve, just north of Pawhuska, Oklahoma. It's almost 40,000 acres of original tallgrass prairie is the largest tract of protected and unbroken tallgrass prairie left out of the few scattered remnants of what once stretched from southern Canada through the central portion of America all the way to the Texas gulf coast. 

It is one of the few places where horizon to horizon vista's of tallgrass prairie, unmarred by man made structures can still be observed. I've made a good number of visits to this remarkable landscape over the years and have yet discovered all of what it has to offer. It's been a few years, Spring of 2019, since my last visit; circumstances has prevented my return, but I from time to time revisit this amazing landscape through memories and the thousands of photographs I've taken there.

Recently, I browsed through some of the images and spent some time examining a single photograph; The Meadowlark. It perhaps captures one of the most enduring elements of the prairie and that would be the myriad of wildlife that can be found there. Here is the story of how this image was captured.

On my last visit to the preserve a few years ago, my intent was to spend upwards to a week camping in a nearby campground, and spending the days driving through and hiking into and across this landscape. As luck would have it, I was greeted with thunderstorms, heavy rain, lightning, and tornado warnings which lasted for most of my time there. As a result I pulled out a day or so early having been thoroughly water logged. Although the rough weather curtailed a lot of my plans, it did not prevent me from exploring and photographing. 

One of the more productive locations I explored was a small prairie pond located just a few dozen yards or so from the gravel road that winds its way through the preserve. I suppose it was about mid-day on my second or third day, there was a lull in the rain and I decided to spend some time just sitting near that pond. With my tripod and 50-500mm lens I found a somewhat dry place to sit and just waited for whatever might appear.

Over the next few hours a good number of migratory birds including Long Billed Dowizers, one American Avocet, several kinds of Sandpipers, ordinary black birds including a Redwing Blackbird, and Killdeers which were fun to watch with their broken wing antics trying to lure me away from their nesting sight. There were a few Common Terns buzzing around performing aerial acrobatics, and a few Meadowlarks that spent most of their time riding the tops of the tallgrass stems that surrounded the pond.

One particular Meadowlark landed about twenty five yards or so from where I sat. He was just out of range really where I was unable to capture any kind of close up shots, but his striking yellow and black coloration stood out against the green of the prairie grasses. It just so happened that he perched on a stem that made him just about eye level with me. Slowly, I scooted across the damp ground lifting my tripod carefully forward. I closed the distance a few yards when the Meadowlark spooked and flittered a few yards further away, stopping again clinging to the tops of a tall stem of prairie grass.

I stopped moving, positioned my camera and zoomed out to 500mm and focused on the smallish figure of the bird. Between me and the bird and also behind the bird were thick layers of tall grasses which became blurred as a result of the exposure values. The overcast skies generated a soft filtered light across the landscape, and I snapped several images before the Meadowlark decided to move on.

I really did not know what I had until several days later when I returned home and began to rummage through the thousands of photos. This one stood out as it represented nature at its best and an environmental portrait of a beautiful prairie bird.

I'll never forget that trip. It was unique to say the least with the stormy weather. In hindsight, it was the stormy weather that helped to present another unique side to the Tallgrass Prairie; Nature in its raw form always creates the most demanding of changes, and change is what a photographer is compelled to capture.

The "Brick" - Argus C3

 My dad passed away a few years ago. He was one of those unsung guys who could be counted as among " The Greatest Generation", having fought during WWII on the Island of Leyte, Philippines as part of General MacArthur's return. He also fought in the bloodiest battle of the Pacific War on the Island of Okinawa. He was attached to the 96th Division, 321st Combat Engineers. It's an odd story really how he became assigned to an engineering outfit. You see he was not very mechanical; barely knew which end of a hammer to hold, but he did have a year of college behind him and while in college he took a photography course. Somehow or another, the Army in all of their infinite wisdom thought his photography skills might be useful in an engineering outfit, so that is where he ended up. He did take a lot of photographs during that time, not one was ever used by the combat engineers. His camera of choice was the venerable Argus C3, otherwise known as "The Brick".

Of the meager possessions he owned at the time of his passing, the only one I truly wanted was his Argus C3. It was not the actual camera he carried across the Pacific, but another one his good friend from his college and army days found and bought for him many years later. It is indeed a brick and earned that nickname because of its reliability and ruggedness, not to mention it is about the size and weight of a brick.

The C3 was manufactured by the International Research Corporation, Ann Arbor, Michigan starting in 1939. They changed their name to Argus in 1944, about the time my grandfather purchased it for him just before my dad shipped out. A little research revealed it cost about $70.00 which was a substantial sum back then for a camera. Being my grandfather probably did not earn more than about $150.00 per month at the time, it was a real sacrificial outlay of funds for him to buy it.

My dad during his WWII
Army days - circa 1944
Taken with his Argus C3

He took a good number of Kodachrome color slides, most of which have been lost over the years, and he also took a lot of black and white photographs of his time overseas. I have a precious few of them in my collection. Many of them were damaged while overseas by fungus and mildew because of the humid and often damp and hot conditions.

Not sure what ever happened to his original one, but the substitute camera his friend purchased for him was probably manufactured in 1955 according to the serial number.

A while back I loaded that old camera with a roll of 35mm black and white film and shot a roll through it. The focus, being a rangefinder, was a bit off, as the focusing knob was really hard to turn, but it was fun to give it a try.

Heavy Equipment Operations
Taken with the old Argus C3
circa 1944/1945

I suppose as I have grown older, nostalgic reflections have become more important to me. Possessing that old camera and the history surrounding that particular model as it relates to my dad, well, it's just hard to place a price on such a thing. I break it out ever so often just to feel it in my hands, and yes it does weigh almost as much as a real brick. We've all been spoiled today with the technology of digital cameras and computers. Back then, you really had to know what you were doing to obtain a decent photo. 

I don't know, maybe I will give it a try again someday, if I can find a place that will develop the film. Just holding on to it and gazing through the fuzzy viewfinder is almost like looking through a time machine. Sometimes I wish I could travel back in time in cognito and visit my dad during those war years and observe first hand just how important that old camera may have been. Even though the one I do have is not the same camera he carried, it's close enough and serves as a connection between two era's. Photography, it seems, has indeed connected me to my dad's legacy.

Me and Walter Mitty: A Great Deal In Common

 Have you ever met Walter Mitty? He's a friend of mine, well, not in any kind of real sense, but he and I share a great deal in common. Walter Mitty, if you are not familiar with him, is a fictional cartoon character, created many years ago by James Thurber around 1939. Walter was this guy who liked to daydream and in his daydreams became a swashbuckling, bigger than life heroic character. The reality of his life fell a great deal short of that, as he was actually quite timid and mundane. Yet, his alter ego transported him into a world of adventure far removed from the boring and simplistic world in which he lived. 

There are times I still feel like Walter Mitty. Growing up I lived so many daydreams I sort of got lost in them at times. Daydreams like becoming an astronaut, or a great athlete were common, but my favorite was dreaming about being a fighter pilot who ruled the skies zooming here and there challenging the bad guys in duels of bravery. Needless to say, none of those things ever came true. I suppose there were many reasons for that, but truth was, my dreams were bigger than my ability to turn them into reality, at least that is the excuse I fall back on when those melancholy thoughts about how, windows of opportunity have closed, begin to resurface. 

Recently, I re-read Chuck Yeager's biography called "Yeager". Chuck, of course, was the guy who first broke the Sound Barrier flying the research airplane the X-1 way back in 1947. He was just a country boy who grew up in the hills and hollers of West Virginia who became a war hero ace fighter pilot who turned test pilot. He went on to become one of the most celebrated pilots of all time. I guess what captivates me about Chuck is how he jumped on the opportunity when it presented itself. He said about himself, "I was at the right place at the right age in the right time of history..." And, so he was. He was not highly educated but had an uncanny understanding of mechanical things and a natural instinct when it came to flying. It was those instincts that pulled him out of some pretty hairy situations. He also said, "The secret to my success was that I always managed to live to fly another day..."

Chuck was no Walter Mitty, he was who Walter wanted to be but never was. I've read about a lot of bigger than life characters, but Chuck Yeager stands apart from all the rest, and I believe America needs more Chuck Yeager's now more than ever.

Yeager also wrote another book called 'Press On'. It's a follow up to his biography but concentrates more on his hunting, fishing and outdoor related adventures. Mixed in with all of those stories are tales of his flying exploits. It mostly takes place after he retired from the Air Force and what impressed me about it was how he just kept on going trading one kind of adventure for another. I would have expected nothing less from the guy.

By now you may be wondering where I'm going with this story. I guess it is to encourage anyone to keep on going in spite of your age or circumstance. It's okay to have dreams and its okay not to have all of them come true. Even though Walter Mitty an I have a lot in common, there are differences. You see even though I never fulfilled my wildest of daydream, I did manage to have some adventures along the way. Those four years I spent in the U.S. Coast Guard performing search and rescue work, for example, were without a doubt the closest I ever came to a swashbuckling adventure. I still claim those years were the defining moment of my young adult life and who I am today is still influenced by what I experienced way back then. I more than likely would never have pursued the outdoor adventures I've managed to live in recent times had I not served those few years so long ago. I have hiked and backpacked parts of the Rocky Mountains, hiked long stretches of rustic beaches, canoed crystal clear waters and spent time simply laying on the creek bank soaking in the moments. I met and fell in love with the love of my life, Kris, who has been my life partner for over 41 years now. I've learned about how to capture the natural beauty of the world through photography, and pursued and finished a thirty year career as an IT specialist. And now, I am retired.

Oh, I still daydream from time to time and wonder...what if...had I challenged myself when I was younger to follow through with those daydreams. Even so, as I've grown older, I realize just how important those daydreams were, for they helped to mold, encourage, and lift up a young boys imagination, and self awareness enough to where his reality and Walter Mitty's deviated away from each other ever so slightly to where he and I live different lives, and I would not change any of it.

Behind The Scenes: More Than Just a Photo

 I love all four seasons, it's just I love the fall season a little more than all the rest. There is something about the allure of fall. It is as though nature is providing one last splash of color and drama before the dormancy of winter sets in. I suppose that may be why I reserve a portion of the fall season to get out and explore not only photographically, but explore the inner self as well, by testing and challenging myself to step deeper, stride longer, and search with more depth for a more fulfilling moment alone with nature. 

In recent years and through various seasons, I have taken a bunch of photos most of which are ordinary captures of ordinary moments. However, a few stand apart for they tend to capture a moment in time captured within the realm of an extraordinary experience. This single fall scene photo taken in the backcountry of Mammoth Cave National Park is one such photo. On the surface it appears to be just another woodland photo highlighted by early season fall colors. Behind the scenes, it represents a favorite discovery where time and place blended with an unusual circumstance.

I was backpacking into the backcountry of the park early in October of 2022. My troublesome hip slowed me down as it has done before. Slowed, but not detoured, as I stumbled onto a old cemetery where a good number of old and weathered headstones stood. Dates on some of the headstones drifted back well into mid-1800's. Somehow along the way, I had missed a turnoff I needed, to head down to a campsite I had reserved for the first night. By this time I was tired and my hip hurt, so, I decided to setup camp off in the woods a few yards from the cemetery. The next morning I would continue on to my intended destination at a second campsite, my favorite, called The Bluffs.

All through the day, I kept hearing the laughter of a small child. Faint as it was, it was clear enough to catch my attention and I kept looking up trying to determine from where it was coming. I never did. I kept faintly hearing it at random with no discernable pattern or direction. Also, all through the afternoon, I struggled to capture any kind of meaningful photos. I just wasn't feeling it.

Eventually, I meandered back to the cemetery and took a closer look at the headstones. To my dismay, there were a good number of young children buried there having died long ago at very early ages ranging from as few as a couple of months to a few years old. As I was looking at the headstone of a young boy, I again heard the distant laughter of a child. Because it was windy that day, I figured it was just the wind creating an odd creaking sound through the tree branches. But the laughter continued randomly off and on up until just after sundown.

The next day I broke camp and hiked the short distance to The Bluffs. After setting up camp a second time, I spent a good part of the afternoon continuing to search for a meaningful photo...and ever so often, I would hear the faint sound of a child's laughter, only this time it seemed to be coming from in the direction of the cemetery, about a mile or so away in a straight line.

Late in the afternoon, I worked my way around the edge of the bluff and up the slope on the far end, about a third to half of a mile or so from the campsite. Across the canopy the trees were in their full fall colors, with some of the lesser vegetation still green. Nothing was jumping out at me photographically until I arched my way closer to the far end of the bluff and looked up. Standing there was this one dead tree, seemingly anchored along the edge of the bluff and reaching toward the sky. Surrounding it stood a myriad of other trees and foliages. I framed the shot and snapped the image. Oddly enough, when I think back on the moment, after taking that photo, I cannot recall ever hearing that laughter sound again.

Every photo has a story that surrounds it, within and through it. This one was unique in that it was captured during an unusual, somewhat haunting span of time. Since then, I have wondered what it was I heard on trip. Was it the wind...or was it something that simply cannot be explained. It matters not, I just know there is more to a photo than just the image. Each one is connected to a story, and serves as reminders of moments from times past, much like the headstones that serve to remind us of the lost stories of those children buried in that old cemetery. Since that day, I have wondered about their stories, but I suppose I will never solve the mystery from where the haunting laughter of a child came.

Other Links

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Video Link

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